


The Service of Water

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Dune Series - Frank Herbert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-21
Updated: 2003-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story by Villeinage</p><p>The more I build, the faster the water flows, Paul realized. There must be something here I do not see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Service of Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Nemiko

 

 

Dune Story 

Disclaimer: Dune and the characters and settings therein are the creation of Frank Herbert, and the property of his estate and publishers. This story is a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made from the writing or distribution of this story. 

Author's Note: Heartfelt gratitude to Penknife for swift and accurate beta. All remaining errors are my own.  
 

* * *

  


Sweat dries quickly on Arrakis, Paul observed. Already the faint coolness of evaporation had left his skin. He glanced at the back of his hand, barely bloody, and noted the rate at which the sheen of moisture faded, leaving behind an ashy film of salt. The rime was barely visible in the dim light of the glow-globes, but he felt the faint itch of it pulling at his pores. 

He was hyper-alert from the challenge, still. The young men rushed towards him, their praises loud as the remembered crash of waves. He silenced them with a jerk of his chin, and strode to the edge of the challenge floor. The crowd flowed away from him respectfully, but their whispers rose and echoed back to him as they funneled into the narrow stone passages of the sietch. 

There was not a trace of moisture left on the challenge floor. The watermasters were efficient, and he knew if he concentrated he would hear the wet squelch as Ithal's body was processed. Or was that merely his adrenaline-heightened fantasy? 

I am a wealthy man, he thought. I am rich in friends. Ithal's water was his by challenge-right, and would be presented formally, each liter and dram strictly accounted. And he would take it, as he had scores of times before. Another stone loosened in the feeble dam he was struggling to erect, more water poured into the torrent of the jihad. 

The more I build, the faster the water flows, Paul realized. There must be something here I do not see. 

Ithal was--had been quick to laughter, and quicker to learn. His eyes had been narrow at the corners, and narrowed even further when he grasped a point of philosophy, or mastered a feint. Paul had taught him control of the breath, the first lesson. By week's end he had integrated it even into his knife-work, and had begun, on his own intuition, the mastery of his autonomic responses. 

He had been unawed by Paul's skills. Of all his Fremen students, Ithal had been closest to being a friend. 

His nostrils flared. The stink of Ithal's fear lingered in the air. He replayed the instant that Ithal had realized he was overmatched. Paul had given him a moment to gather his resignation around himself, then killed him quickly, before his dignity could desert him once more. 

Such mercy, he mocked himself bitterly. Fine tremors swept through him, visible only to Bene Gesserit-trained eyes. He denied himself the series of calming breaths that would counter the adrenaline rush. His stomach lurched into his throat. 

This is how it feels to be a killer. His mother had been right to imprint him with the horror of it. The flesh on his back grew warm as someone approached. Paul turned and lifted his head to meet Stilgar's eyes. 

"You fought well, Usul." Stilgar's angled face was impassive. "You should let them praise you." 

"That wasn't a fight," Paul said. "It was slaughter." He used the Chakobsa word which meant "ambush-while-sleeping." 

"It's the way." 

"It's a waste, Stil! We should be defanging the Harkonnen Beast, not pulling our teeth before battle." 

Paul heard the evidence of frustration in his voice. 

"I began my training in the Weirding Way before I was weaned. No matter how well they learn--" he paused, remembering Ithal's laughing face. "They _can't_ best me." 

Silence hung between them. 

"I thought the challenges would stop," Paul said. 

"The young are ever arrogant, Usul." 

Paul straightened at the implied rebuke. 

"It's not hubris. It's fact. You've said so yourself. Must I slaughter every battle-ready man in the troop?" 

Weariness tugged at his shoulders. The warm rush of the kill was fully past him now, and his hand felt heavy and cold. 

"Is there no other way?" he whispered. He closed his eyes. 

I'm tired, he thought. It was a dangerous indulgence, to let despair claim a foothold that could lead to deadly carelessness. 

"Paul Muad'Dib." Stilgar's voice vibrated with a note he could not interpret, demanding his attention. He snapped to full alertness. 

"Chani is of the Sayyadina," Stilgar said. "She knows our ways." 

Paul held himself to stillness, observing as he had been trained. There was something-yes, the set of his shoulders, the unbalanced tension in the hips, that spoke of conflict. Ah. The urge to say a thing not normally spoken of. 

These Fremen and their taboos, he thought ruefully. They're trained to such narrow paths. 

"I will speak with Chani," Paul said. "Today." 

Stilgar inclined his head. 

"Tomorrow, I take coffee alone, at the third hour. If Usul chooses, he may join me then." 

He strode away. Even in the safety of the sietch, his robes betrayed not a whisper of sound as he passed.  
 

* * *

  


"Chani," Paul said, "what did Stilgar mean? What do you have to tell me?" 

It was late, deep into the cool heart of nighttime, and the sietch bustled with activity. Outside their quarters, the corridor rang with the voices of children returning from school. The faint hum of the textile factory wove itself around the high-pitched squeals. 

"I've wronged you, Usul." Chani's voice was soft. She turned her face away. 

"Chani." This was a response he had not expected. "Look at me." He shaded his voice with reassurance. 

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. Her head-scarf had slipped down and perched in a loose knot at the back of her neck. Paul thought of the butterflies of his youth. 

"It's truth, Usul. I judged you in my thoughts. The son of a Duke, and thirsty for power." 

"And yet you lay with me." 

And now she looked at him. A hint of familiar mischief lit her face. 

"All men have faults, Usul. Were women to wait for perfection, there would be no infants born." Chani sobered. She pushed irritably at her hair. "I thought you too proud to request the _abd_." 

"Chani. Please. Tell me what I must do." 

"There is no 'must,' Usul. Stilgar offers you a choice." 

She moved to the small heap of cushions at the far corner of their room. She sank down with less than her usual grace. Paul noted the slight awkwardness and the weary line of her shoulders. She gestured for him to join her. 

She takes so much on herself, he thought. Yet she is younger than I. 

Chani straightened her spine and folded her hands. He recognized the posture as one of ritual, and composed himself likewise. 

"Those bound to the water-service," she said, "are freed from _tahaddi_ challenge." 

Then there was a way to avoid the challenge-to-the-death! He forced down the wild upsurge of hope. 

"I do not know this binding," he said. The word she used he had learned as 'slave.' "What does this entail?" It was a formal request for knowledge. 

She inclined her head. She wore the face of the Sayyadina now, and her mobile features were smooth and grave, as befitted a future Reverend Mother. "We do not speak of it often," she replied. "And only with respect." 

He opened his hand, signaling his desire to hear more. 

"It is not a consecration," she continued. "Not a life-long vow. The pledge is for one year only." 

It was less than he had hoped for. But it might be long enough. 

"When you pledge your water to another man, you cannot be challenged. The water of your life is his, and cannot be stolen away." 

"I become his possession, then?" He schooled the outrage from his voice. 

"Oh, no!" Shock at his misapprehension flashed across her face. "You become his flesh."  
 

* * *

  


The passageway that led to Stilgar's quarters was almost deserted at this hour, and Paul relaxed minutely . He supposed he should thank Stilgar for that consideration. Here and there a child too young for school but too old to be confined to his mother's side wandered along the stone corridor. 

To become his flesh. He'd known of such relationships among his father's guardsmen, of course, but had never considered it for himself. His mother had taught him how to channel his body's urges from the time he was old enough to have them. He wondered at that suddenly. 

It was surely not at his father's behest. He remembered the case of an officer stripped of his commission for his relations with a young guardsman. Paul had been perhaps 12, old enough to stand at his father's side when he dispensed such justice as was needed. 

The last seal had been affixed. The four and twenty documents (Paul had counted them)needed to finalize the man's dismissal had been borne away by his father's secretary. They were alone in the small study that adjoined the main Hall. Such privacy with each other was a rare commodity. 

"Do you have any questions?" Despite the tensions of the long proceedings, his father's eyes were sharp as he gazed at Paul. 

"Why did this case come before you?" His father's shoulders drew back, and Paul rushed to clarify his question. "You've always said barracks discipline should be left to your senior officers." 

His father's shoulders relaxed, and seeing that, Paul felt his heart-rate decline fractionally. 

"It's a fair question, Paul," his father said. "This wasn't barracks discipline. What were the exact charges?" 

Paul closed his eyes briefly to hone his mnemonic focus. "Coercion," he said, as the scene replayed itself to him. "And...Theft Sigil Royal." 

The Duke nodded sharply. "He abused his rank. He threatened another man into his bed. But he used the crest of House Atreides to sanction his crime. Legally, it's theft of a noble seal." 

"I see." And he did, at least a little, hearing the intonations of outrage just beneath his father's level voice. 

"Then, relationships among your men aren't forbidden?" 

His father's eyes softened. 

"I forget how young you are," he said, shaking his head. "Would you have me spy out the secrets in each man's heart? I'll not decree what cannot be enforced. But I'll not stand for blackmail in my name." 

And this, father? he thought as he reached Stilgar's door. Would you stand for this? 

The doorway opened to his touch. He wondered when Stilgar had coded his free access. It closed itself behind him, and Paul heard the faint whoosh as the still-seals engaged. The reclamation fans began to hum softly, recycling the available moisture in the room. Paul opened the neck of his still-suit in acknowledgment of the extra courtesy. 

"Usul. " Stilgar greeted him from the center of the room. He stood near the low table, on which rested a battered stelsilver coffee service. 

Two cups sat ready, Paul noted. Was he so sure of me? 

They drank the first cup together in the customary silence. 

"How goes the teaching, Usul?" Stilgar began. There were so many formalities to be observed before they could truly speak. 

"Our men learn quickly, Stilgar. They see the usefulness of the Weirding Way. I teach a skill once, and they persist until it is mastered. So says my mother also." 

We will have need of those skills," Stilgar said. "The Beast grows hungry." 

Paul leaned forward, eager for news of the Harkonnen pretender. The last patrol had been instructed to capture a few of Rabban's men for intelligence. 

Stilgar inclined his head. "The patrol arrives at the tenth hour," he said. "Your plan worked." 

Paul tried to conceal the warmth that swept through him at Stilgar's words. This was high praise among Fremen. 

"Chani teaches the Weirding Way to the children," Stilgar remarked. "This goes well?" 

A bubble of happiness rose in his chest. Paul smiled. 

"Chani bids me to tell her uncle that the line of Liet continues." 

"This is welcome news!" There was unconcealed pleasure in Stilgar's voice. "I'll strike her name from the roster of patrols." 

Paul nodded. Infants were precious to the Fremen, and pregnant women were coddled like spun trivellan glass. They were exempt from all hazardous duties, and abstained from sexual relations. 

"So you see, Usul," Chani had exclaimed, her eyes alight with humor, "You will not be seen as neglecting me. The superstitious ones will say it was meant to be." 

Paul replaced his cup deliberately on the tray. 

"She told me many things I'd not known, before." He swallowed. His mouth felt as dry as noonday air. "There is much wisdom in Fremen tradition." 

Stilgar, too, replaced his cup. His hands were long-fingered, Paul noticed, with broad palms and strongly-muscled wrists. 

"You've done well for one not born to the desert, Usul. New ways are always difficult." Paul heard the sincerity in the break from formality, and the well-concealed uncertainty in Stilgar's voice. 

He isn't sure of my answer, he realized. 

That thought steadied him enough to continue. He stood as Chani had instructed him. 

"Stilgar," he said, "Will you accept my pledge?" The ritual words came easily, as if he had spoken them before. But he had not, he knew this with a cell-deep certainty, not in any of his visions of the future. 

"What do you offer, Paul Muad'Dib?" 

"My right arm in battle. The heat of my body when al-Lat, the sun, withdraws his light. The water of my flesh," Paul whispered, "in death and in life." 

"You pledge this freely?" 

Paul stared down the branching corridors of the future. The ones he saw most clearly, now, and in all his prescient visions, lead inevitably to the jihad. He gazed in all directions, but could not see this moment anywhere he looked. 

He was not comforted. This may yet be a path to carnage, he thought. He saw again the armies massed under the banner of House Atreides, screaming the name of Muad'Dib as they washed the galaxy with blood. 

What is freedom? he thought. What is constraint? He remembered the old harsh lesson: A human chooses, despite the constraints of pain. 

"I do, " Paul said. "I pledge freely." 

"Then I accept your pledge."  
 

* * *

  


Stilgar's sleeping-chamber was as spare as the man himself, Paul noted. There was little to reflect his standing in the troop. The wall-hangings were simple fabrics of sietch manufacture, and the carpets underfoot were clean, but slightly worn. The only luxury, if it could be termed such, was the length of the sleep platform. Paul realized it had been made to match Stilgar's height. The serviceable bed-linens would have been milled to match. He was oddly reassured by the presence of this small self-indulgence. 

And his moisture reclamation systems were superior. He glanced at the lean form seated on the platform. Stilgar wore no stillsuit beneath his robes. Paul realized he had screened that awareness from his thoughts. He brought himself to full consciousness now. 

Stilgar was thin in the Fremen way, all flesh drawn tightly to the bones. When Stilgar disrobed, Paul knew he would see the striations of muscle under skin. As lightly clothed as Stilgar was, Paul could discern the insertion of the outer thigh into the hip. His eyes traced another line of muscle from the inside of the knee, curving in a small arc outward and then narrowing into the pelvis. 

Paul felt his breath catch there. He raised his eyes to Stilgar's face. It was a place of sharp angles and restful shadows. Arrakis taught one gratitude for shade. 

"The water of your body is mine, in death and in life," Stilgar said. "I would see what is mine." 

Paul stabilized his legs beneath himself. He unclasped his robe and placed it to one side. He inhaled once, and exhaled in three parts, each one separated by a barely perceptible pause. He brought his newly-steadied hands to the throat-seam of his stillsuit. 

"No," Stilgar said. 

Paul froze. 

"I embrace the Weirding Way in battle. Not in this," Stilgar said. "You _will_ uncover yourself to me, Usul." 

He sees, Paul realized. Stilgar had been his mother's first Fremen student. The Bene Gesserit training had further honed Stilgar's brutally sharp perceptions. I cannot hide from him in any way, Paul thought. He'll not allow it. 

He let the realization throb through him as he began again. He ran his fingers along the sides of his stillsuit, opening the outseams. He raised both hands, first to the base of his throat and then to his breastbone, to loosen the central catches. The catch at his navel was stubborn, and he worked at it doggedly until it parted. He drew his hands apart and dragged the sleeves down his arms, off his wrists, till his torso lay bare. 

Stilgar had set the lights to their highest illumination, and the small room was warm. Paul shivered once, despite the heat, then again. He made himself allow it. He knew his nipples were hard and tight, like a girl's, and he flushed with an emotion that could have been shame. 

He brought his shaking hands to the inside of his thighs. He opened the leg seams-- thigh, knee, calf. Clumsily, he stooped and unfastened his boots. He fumbled them off, and dragged the stillsuit down his legs, until it lay in a slick pile at his feet. 

He made himself straighten. He stood, warm and shivering and naked to Stilgar's eyes. 

And Stilgar watched him. His gaze was without appraisal. The time for evaluation was long past. Stilgar looked, and Paul, gazing into those blue-in-blue eyes, realized he had no memory of being seen like this before. Did my mother ever look at me like this, without assessment? Or my father, outside of his hope, or his pride? 

Paul felt something opening inside himself, something unknowable and vast. Time was measured only in the slow dark expansion of Stilgar's eyes. 

"Usul," Stilgar said, and Paul felt himself move forward until the heat of their bodies meshed. 

"Spread your legs," Stilgar said. His breath was damp and delicate in the crease of Paul's thigh. 

Paul widened his stance, but it did not steady him. His leg muscles quivered as Stilgar touched him. Stilgar's callused fingers drew upwards slowly from Paul's knees, stroking the smooth skin of his inner thighs, further upwards, cradling his balls for a moment. 

"Wider," Stilgar said, and Paul complied. His cock was hard now, had been hard since Stilgar first touched him, and the heat of Stilgar's breath was almost like pain. 

Stilgar placed a hand on Paul's hip. His other hand moved back, behind Paul's balls. He stroked the soft, tight skin there once, twice, then pressed upward firmly. 

Paul cried out at the deep jolt of pleasure. He tried to push down against Stilgar's touch, but it trailed away like sand. He struggled to follow it, but Stilgar's grip tightened on his hip, holding him still. He was panting. 

I want this, he thought wildly. I want this. 

"Yes," Stilgar murmured against his belly. "Soon." And Paul realized he had spoken aloud. 

He felt a wave of fear roll over him at his lack of self-control. There was another rush of fear when Stilgar's hand returned to trail slickly over his perineum, then back even further to the clenched opening of his body. The hand on Paul's hip tightened further. The oiled fingers below him circled gently, the lightest of caresses, and then thrust sharply upward, tearing him open. 

The pain was so exquisite that he moaned. Paul's thighs tensed and released in exhausted spasms, as if he'd spent the night running through flour sand. He tasted salt on his upper lip. The fingers inside him pushed further, increasing the burning pain. 

His inner awareness irised open. He traveled back along an echoing corridor. He saw his boy-self pinned in place by the threat of the gom jabbar, the poisoned needle at his neck. He was burning, poised between pain and death. 

He chose pain. 

He dropped his hips back and down, sinking onto the remorseless hand that pierced him. He felt himself open even more, and there, deep inside the pain, was the gut-wrenching jolt of pleasure. 

Stilgar closed his mouth around Paul's cock. 

Paul's head fell back. He was engulfed in fire. He flung himself forward, again and again, into the flames that licked and curled around his cock, and then pulled back to drive that hot spike of need deeper into his gut. 

Paul felt himself scream, but he heard no sound. The world disappeared in a white wall of flame. 

He came back to himself gasping. He had fallen to his knees in front of the sleeping platform. Paul's head was on Stilgar's thigh, and his arms were wrapped loosely around Stilgar's hips. Stilgar's hands were stroking Paul's head, smoothing the damp hair. 

"Truly thou art a fountain of delight," Stilgar murmured, quoting from the Scripture of Zaneb. "Your body's moisture is generous, Usul." 

Paul shifted and moved closer to Stilgar's heat. He smelled of spice, of course, and a rich, warm musk. Paul nuzzled into Stilgar's belly, rubbing his cheek against the heat of Stilgar's hard cock. He mouthed the shaft through the thin fabric of Stilgar's robe. 

"No," Stilgar said. Paul looked up. He felt his face grow warm as he understood. It was an act of utmost submission here, pouring one's moisture directly into another's mouth. 

Stilgar drew Paul up onto the bed. Stilgar removed his robe, and Paul glimpsed Stilgar's lean, scarred back as he placed the garment at the foot of the sleeping platform. Stilgar rolled Paul onto his belly, and raised his hips, tucking one of the small cushions under him. 

Paul felt loose, almost boneless. There was no tension left within him. He was, at least for this moment, free from the visions of a thousand ravaged futures. He shivered as a cool stream of oil trickled over the tender flesh where his body opened. 

Then the warmth of Stilgar's body covered him. Paul cried out once as he was pierced. The pain faded, and there was only the smooth hot fullness inside him, relentless and strong, like the slow, fierce surge of waves at the base of a cliff. 

He felt Stilgar shudder behind him. His teeth closed sharply at the juncture where Paul's shoulder met his neck, tearing through the skin, and Paul shivered and cried out once more when he felt Stilgar swallow. 

 


End file.
